"M. de Fontelles will trouble you no more," I remarked, in a tone as calm as though I stated the price of wheat; indeed much calmer than such a vital matter was wont to command at our village inn. "What?" she cried. "He will not----?" "He didn't know the truth. I have told him. He is an honourable gentleman." "You've done that also, Simon?" She came a step nearer me. "It was nothing to do," said I. Barbara fell back again. "Yet I am obliged to you," said she. I bowed with careful courtesy. Why tell these silly things. Every man has such in his life. Yet each counts his own memory a rare treasure, and it will not be denied utterance. "I had best seek my Lord Carford," said I, more for lack of another thing to say than because there was need to say that. "I pray you----" cried Barbara, again in a marked agitation. It was a fair soft evening; a breeze stirred the tree-tops, and I could scarce tell when the wind whispered and when Barbara spoke, so like were the caressing sounds. She was very different from the lady of our journey, yet like to her who had for a moment spoken to me from her chamber-door at Canterbury. "You haven't sent for me," I said, in a low voice. "I suppose you have no need of me?" She made me no answer. "Why did you fling my guinea in the sea?" I said, and paused. "Why did you use me so on the way?" I asked. "Why haven't you sent for me?" I whispered. She seemed to have no answer for any of these questions. There was nothing in her eyes now save the desire of escape. Yet she did not dismiss me, and without dismissal I would not go. I had forgotten Carford and the angry Frenchman, my quarrel and her peril; the questions I had put to her summed up all life now held.